Pumpkin Spice Latte
by LeFay
Summary: Who knew that everyone's favorite fall drink could start such a stimulating conversation? Careful, the beverage you're about to enjoy is extremely hot. Tyler/OC, one shot


**Summary** : Who knew that everyone's favorite fall drink could start such a stimulating conversation? Careful, the beverage you're about to enjoy is extremely hot. Tyler/OC, one shot

 **Author's Note** : I'm trying something new here with the Fanfiction platform…A little pinch of camp, a smidge of fluff, and a small dose of awareness.

Ever wonder how that delicious fall flavor, pumpkin spice, came about? Want to learn more about one of the internet's new buzzwords? Read on for a fun and short explanation. For more information, check out the awesome article about pumpkin spice on the website, Black Girl Dangerous. There is also a great article about the term "basic" on Huff Post and Buzz Feed.

Happy reading and happy fall!

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"Let me in, it's freezing!" he complained from outside her dorm room. Spencer Academy boasted some of the most regal student housing in Massachusetts with all of the perks of modernity, including central heating, right alongside colonial architecture. Unfortunately, these amenities did not extend from the room to the hallways and the hallowed halls of Spencer felt like walk-in freezers in the winter.

He heard the quiet thump as she rolled off of her bed, out of the cocoon of flannel blankets she liked to shelter under. The latch on the door opened but the chain still hung from the frame.

"Did you bring it?" she peered out at him, her hair squished on one side from sleep. Fortunately, he was tall enough to appreciate the cleavage afforded from her silk camisole, which was hanging low due to her hunched posture. It was distracting.

"Bring what?" he asked dumbly, momentarily forgetting the cardboard tray and steaming hot drinks in his hands.

"The goods!" she exclaimed. "The elixir of life!" He stared blankly, hoping the wayward strap of her top would fall just a bit lower on her shoulder.

"Never mind," she laughed, "I can smell it," and she promptly shut the door in his face. A few moments later he heard the chain slide free and the door opened wide. She gestured for him to enter and he was pleased to see the matching, lacy silk short shorts that barely extended past the hem of the camisole.

He walked inside the room, feeling the heat at once and set the drinks down on her desk. He turned, pulling his gloves off with his teeth and shook loose the half-melted flakes on his shoulders and hat. She walked towards him and he leaned in to kiss her but she continued right past his proffered embrace and made a direct line for –

"My pumpkin spice latte!" she gleefully grasped the venti-size coffee cup, wrapping her hands lovingly around the warm object as though it was a child. "Yum!"

She happily twirled away from the desk, slowly sipping her breakfast of choice. He frowned at her, his own grande black coffee forgotten, and wondered how she had managed to manipulate him into leaving the warmth of her room – and her bed – to brave the first snowstorm of the year and drive ten miles into town to the nearest Starbucks.

Then he watched her climb up on the bed, cautiously balancing her drink as she kneeled next to the nightstand, the ample curve of bust and buttocks accentuated in the seemingly demure position. Oh yeah, that was how.

She turned and smiled, then gestured for him to sit. He quickly undid the buttons on his coat and let it fall to the floor. He kicked off his shoes and climbed back onto her bed, wrapping a lose blanket around his shoulders while she took another gulp.

"I don't get how you like those drinks," he teased, "they're too sweet."

"You shut your mouth!" she admonished and shot him a stink eye. He laughed out loud at the absurd expression – one perfectly arched eyebrow reaching for her hairline while the other flattened itself above a big brown eye. She was the lead in the school play and liked to be dramatic.

He watched as she popped the lid off her cup and smiled over the fluffy white dome made by the whipped cream. Then he leaned forward unconsciously as she very slowly ran her tongue around the peak of the cream and licked the corner of her lip.

He coughed. She laughed.

"Did you know that pumpkin spice is really a mélange of several spices, Tyler?" she questioned, and took another short sip. He groaned as he recognized the tone of her voice and knew a Serious Conversation was coming.

"No," he said, not bothering to hide his boredom, and flopped forward onto his stomach, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders so he lay just between her slightly parted feet. He rested his chin on his elbows. "I thought it just came out of those little McCormick spice containers."

"That's pumpkin _pie_ spice," she corrected. "It's a mixture of nutmeg, all spice, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves." She said the name of each in her breathy voice, softly blowing the vapors from her drink towards his drowsy face. "Smell good?" she asked.

"You do," he cocked a grin.

She laughed out loud. "Not your best line, Simms. Here, take a sip." She held the cup out to him and he obliged, enjoying the heat of the drink if nothing else.

"Mmm," he joked, "that's so basic."

"Tyler," she admonished, this time seriously. "Don't use that word. It's stupid."

"Why?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Haven't you seen all those memes about Pumpkin Spice, the lost Spice Girl, and the quotes of shit white girls like?" He barely caught himself before his sarcastic laugh came out. She frowned at him and he couldn't meet her eyes. She was, in fact, not white.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. For some reason it made him uncomfortable to draw attention to her skin.

"Why?" she said loudly. "Sorry that I'm not white?"

"No, definitely not," he assured her, trying to back pedal his way out of the awkwardness. "I'm sorry that I used the word basic."

She laughed again, though not quite with humor. "You don't even know why you're using that word. Like you said, it's just a stupid meme, right?"

"Well, yea," he said honestly. "Isn't it?"

"I'm pretty sure the word "basic" came from the even more appealing term: basic bitch," she said sarcastically. "Which is really just a way of calling someone out for liking popular or predictable things. Like, if you listen to Taylor Swift, you're basic, right?"

"Sure," he chose the least committal term. It was always best not to stake a claim to either side before he knew which one she wanted him to be on.

"So it's a term used to put other people down for being too mainstream," she added, "Excuse me, a term used to put _women_ down, because you know, what else could we possibly do with language?" She took a big swig of her drink.

He hesitated before asking, "You're being sarcastic, right?"

Thankfully, her reaction was limited to an eye roll. "Yes, I am being sarcastic, but still, when have you ever heard the term 'basic' applied to a guy?"

"Last night," he said, proud to contribute, "when that girl Tiffany made fun of Pogue and called him a "basic bro" for eating so much bacon."

And finally she laughed with real, true humor instead of mirth. He smiled. Sometimes she started conversations about little words or song lyrics and by the end of them she was upset, angry – usually at him – or mute with rage. He didn't like upsetting her and tried to avoid certain topics. Of course, he'd had no idea that a pumpkin spice latte could be a catalyst for an early morning sociology discussion.

"Okay, fair point," she conceded after her laughing fit ended. "Bacon is pretty basic. But if you think about it, calling someone basic is a way of also saying that _you_ are not basic. We use it to show that we, personally, don't fall into the mainstream. So, in contrast, we make ourselves more interesting or more special," she paused and drank again. He was glad she had the latte to comfort her.

"So you're making fun of someone for liking something that is popular, simply because it's something that a lot of people like," she summarized for him.

He was idly playing with the strings on the edge of one of her blankets. He followed part of the argument but got lost after bacon. "Right," he tried to sound as though he understood her.

"Okay, fine," she sighed. And he felt her left foot, encased in a fluffy wool sock, gently tickle his shoulder. "Let's put basic aside and get back to pumpkin spice."

"Let's," he agreed and slowly ran one of his hands up her calf. She smiled and leaned forward, her top graciously dipping low again. He raised his head and met her lips for a warm, pumpkin spice kiss. He propped himself up, reaching up to tease the strap of her shirt but she leaned back all too soon and settled against her pillows. He sighed and face planted on her bed.

"Cinnamon," she began, ignoring his frustration, "is native to Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, and parts of India. Although now it's grown in many other places." He nodded and resigned himself to trailing his fingers up and down her bare calf.

"Like many plants in Asia, after the Europeans arrived, it was grown on huge plantations that ran off of local labor, usually enslaved labor," she met his gaze but he said nothing and looked away. He shifted uncomfortably; she took a sip of her drink. "The people of Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, and India worked their land to produce a spice that was sold for an insane profit half way around the world. And of course, none of that profit made it back to them."

He could sense where this was going. A part of him wanted to stop the conversation; it was uncomfortable and it reminded him of the differences between them. But he also knew that it was important to her that she share this knowledge. And it meant something that she wanted to share it with him.

"Then we have cloves which are native to Indonesia," she counted off the second spice on her finger. "Fortunately, cloves grew over a wide enough area that the Dutch East India Company couldn't secure a solid monopoly over its competitors in the spice market. Still, cloves were sold for ridiculous prices and caused no end of hardship for the indigenous people on the islands where the clove trees grew."

He rested his head against her smooth leg and tried to imagine an island in Indonesia. He was planning to visit some day, maybe for spring break senior year. He'd heard there was good surfing. Then he tried to picture an Indonesian beach with a clove tree but realized that he had no idea what a clove tree looked like. He didn't know much about cloves at all, or any of these spices. He just knew they smelled nice. Sometimes her breath smelled like cinnamon or nutmeg when she came back to the dorms after eating at her parent's house. Her mom made wicked good homemade curry.

"Nutmeg and ginger suffered the same fate as cinnamon," she continued. "And that brings us to pumpkin!"

"Pumpkins are native to America," he said proudly, smiling. "I remember something from history class when we had to read about Thanksgiving."

She snorted, "Brilliant. Yes, of course, pumpkins and Thanksgiving." She took a large gulp of the latte and casually punched the pillow behind her to fluff it up. "Who do you think grew those pumpkins? Who roasted those vegetables at that famous feast? Which side of the table where those people sitting on?"

He frowned. "I get it, I get it," he admitted, "the Native Americans grew pumpkins, showed us white people how to grow them and cook them. Then we killed them." He withdrew from her and sat up, frowning. He didn't understand why he was feeling defensive.

She eyed him over the top of her drink. "You didn't kill them, Tyler." Her voice was quiet but even. "I'm not attacking you personally or saying that you're responsible. I'm just trying to highlight history for what it was. And to explain, as clearly as possible, that with all these ingredients, a pumpkin spice latte is certainly not a white person's drink. Take it out of a stupid Starbucks cup and a pumpkin spice latte is probably one of the most non-white drinks you could possibly consume."

She smiled and let the last few sips slide down her throat. "It's not basic. And I'm not basic for liking it. And it's not simply another piece of internet humor or shit white girls like. It's something that exists because a mixture of cultures grew and harvested fields and fields of delicious spices, which were then colonized and exploited by people from other cultures. Eventually, at some point, all of these flavors were mixed together to create one delicious drink. And I won't apologize for liking it, nor do I have to defend my choices."

At this last bit she looked pointedly at him and he realized the double meaning. He knew that she got flack at school for dating a white guy, just like he overheard bullshit in the locker rooms about his relationship with her. Crap like that made him so angry and it pissed him off that people sometimes treated her differently, even family or people he went to school with.

"You don't have to defend your choices," he agreed, and forced himself to look her directly in the eye. "I think you make great choices," and he let his trademark golden-boy smile shine through. She laughed and like always it was the happiest, warmest sound he'd ever heard.

He dared to continue, "Especially this drink," and leaned forward to take the empty cup from her hands, "after listening to your story I could definitely lick this cup clean."

He popped the top and ran his tongue around the inside edge, then held the cup up above his mouth and tried to shake out the last few drops. By this time she was laughing continuously and shrieked when he tossed the cup off the bed and pulled both her ankles gently so she slid off the pillows and lay flat on her back. "But I'd rather lick something else."

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;)

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